Yack alleys

Dance the daddy longlegs

pussyfoot around

let’s beat all around the bushes

in case the truth is found,

ah! house, built upon fables

having legend for a foundation

your walls constructed of folk-lore

nowt more concrete than imagination,

a more durable truth might have lasted.

My ears work best in the valley

in copses where trees gentle the wind

the earth I tread is soft but firm

there my life is determined.

Morning prayer and the song of a robin

chuckling praise like river mirth

answers come down like autumn leaves

yeah, and teach me what I am worth

I am your meadow maid,

meadow maid, meadow maid

you have forgotten all about me,

the songs we sang, the games we played

in the morning sunshine.

How our laughter rang out

we used to skip together and dance

never afraid to shout.

You have seen the field crocuses

gathered round the sycamore tree

I am one of them,

that pretty red one among them, that is me.